


In Excelsis Deo

by indras



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Astraphobia, Backstory, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indras/pseuds/indras
Summary: He isn’t used to kind touchesTo light touchesOnes which aren’t held to himWith malintent.He’s learned not to flinchTo ones that are.And when his sunSuddenly fills the roomWith its lightAnd soft strokeKyouya quails.





	In Excelsis Deo

**Author's Note:**

> Приве́т and hello! This was one of the first works I ever completed, and I have since deleted the account to which it was originally tied. I've decided to begin posting it again. I have left the first chapter more or less the same, but the titles have been altered. But I'm going to be honest, the only chance I have of keeping up with this and continuing to post hinges on the response it gets. Be sure to leave your kudos if you liked it as well as any thoughts in the comments.
> 
> This is a small fandom with respect to fanworks, and I hope someone will appreciate my contribution.
> 
> Tags may be added, ratings may change.

The apartment isn’t spectacular, but it’ll do. It’s a small price to pay to be on his own (literally, the rent is only 30,000¥ sans the deposit), at least Kyouya thinks so. He sets a box filled with clothes down in the middle of the room before turning to go fetch another one. There are only a few boxes. Most of Kyouya’s stuff was really his father’s. His sister offered, begged almost, to help him move, but he didn’t really need it. She could visit often, he assured her before leaving.

Soon all of Kyouya’s life is sitting on the floor in front of him. All four boxes. He’s already sweating a bit. He’s not cut out for housework. The idea of actually going through everything in those boxes doesn’t seem appealing. He’ll settle for just unpacking his blanket and pillow for tonight. He sits down on the tile floor beside the boxes instead, stretching his arms and back, and for a moment he feels dizzy.

It’s almost eight, he announces to the empty room, just to hear his own voice. That’s something he seems to do a lot these days. Paying close attention to the clock. Maybe not talking to empty rooms. He’s not sure why he does that now, maybe to make sure his voice still works, even when there’s no one around to hear it.

Ootori Kyouya is a worrier, a trait engrained in him from his upbringing. He worries about his family, about his future. He worries about what people will think of him. Now, Kyouya worries about bills and how maladjusted he is for the real world. He is also an early riser. When he wakes up at four a.m. from his place on the floor he uses that opportunity to slip out of his new apartment to go to the local all hours’ supermarket unseen by his also new neighbors.

He was sure he was quite the sight in his wrinkled clothes and wet hair, lurking between the aisles of the supermarket for cereal and ramen and orange juice. He didn’t mind. He wouldn’t be seeing these people everyday. The woman working as a cashier gave him a knowing look.

“Late night? Fun party?”

Kyouya nodded and smiled. Sure, one’s a party.

By the time Kyouya got back to his apartment the sun had just started to reach out from behind the horizon. He noticed the apartment looked a lot different in the morning than it did in the afternoon and evening. A soft orange glow came in from the front window on the door and the empty living room was cast in pink. Kyouya sniffs. How fucking bleak. He set down his grocery bags on the counter, catching his reflection in the shiny refrigerator door. He could make out messy hair and dark shadows under his eyes. Beyond that all he saw was a distorted figure that made his head look larger than the rest of him. Maybe it’s fitting.

After a solid hour of procrastinating with two glasses of orange juice and cold cereal, Kyouya sits down to unpack his things. It doesn’t actually take long once he starts. It’s not as if he brought much. And any furniture he did have with him, he moved prior to coming. Though picking out drawers of a dresser for various types of clothing and putting sheets on a bed are small tasks, Kyouya conclusively feels as if he’s doing something important. In an infinitesimal way, this seems to solidify his situation. With the cardboard boxes gone, Kyouya is finally here. And he’s ultimately, if surprisingly, okay with that.

Kyouya quickly comes to realize that without school or work to keep him busy, weekends tend to drag. There are only so many times one can check his email or the stock market, even for Kyouya. He takes to peeking out the window, trying to think about what a normal operational adult typically does. He’s already done the shopping. He has nothing to clean or wash, not yet. He could change his clothes. His striped t-shirt and jeans were a day old in wear, and that would give him something to do. Kyouya wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t actually want to do the washing up. The idea was nice though.

He decides instead on checking his mail. His actual mailbox. He has one of those now. Clouds have since covered his early morning sun, but when he steps outside the hot and humid air immediately seems to weigh him down. He feels a lot less manic and a lot more like showering.

His apartment is number 303. When he sees the corresponding letterbox he realizes he hasn’t even put his name on it or the buzzer below it. He shoves his hand in his jean pocket and pulls out a receipt from the supermarket and a pen. Ootori Kyouya, he writes in messy script before folding and sliding it into the slot, pushing out the old owner’s name plate in the process. He smiles at his work before grabbing his keys and opening the box. He knows it should be empty. It’s only been two days since he transferred his mail to this address, and who even uses postal anyway now? Then why, he asks himself, are letters and fanzines literally falling out of the stuffed mailbox?

He looks down to a particular piece of mail which fell at his feet and picks it up. It had been addressed to a one Suoh Tamaki. He isn’t Suoh. The previous tenant, going by the label Kyouya just removed from his box, wasn’t Suoh either. The address was right, however. Kyouya clumsily grabs the rest of the mail from the ground and inspects it as well, finding it all to be the same way. He glances back at the rows of mailboxes. Suoh Tamaki was right next door. Honest mistake, Kyouya reasons.

His train of thought is jolted and the letters flutter to the ground again when he hears the low resounding of thunder. He snatches the rest of the mail from the box and scrambles to pick up the others before rushing back inside.

Ootori Kyouya has grown into nervous young man. It’s a product of his past. It takes little to break his façade of confidence, even if the frontage comes to him easily. Kyouya worries. He worries for his family, for his future, for his finances. Kyouya worries about war and natural disasters. Kyouya worries about the weather. And he’s fine. This is what he tells himself as he spends the rest of the morning in his small linen closet reading a theatre fanzine addressed to Suoh Tamaki, on account of the off chance that the impending storm grows worse.

 

The storm does get worse, and for the first time since he’s been here, Kyouya misses his home with his family. Maybe this isn’t the only time he’s missed home. He did sleep on the floor. But he does wish his sister was here. If Fuyumi was here, or rather Kyouya there, she would sit with him in the cellar, holding onto him while he pretends to be fine and checks his email on his phone.

Here, Kyouya holds onto himself, pulling his knees to his chest and gritting his teeth. He breathes so quickly and shallowly that it fogs up his glasses as he presses his forehead to his knees, and though the door of the closet is shut, he swears he sees the flashes of lightning that come with thunder. It’s shortness of breath, he tells himself. If he can’t figure that out, then it’s obvious why he’s where he is now. He chokes on a sob, pressing himself further against the back of the closet.

Soon the lights start to flicker, and with them goes the humming of any other electrical workings that one never notices until it’s gone. Kyouya feels around ineptly for the door handle and flings the door open, throwing himself out of the tiny closet. He runs a hand over his face. His face itches with dried tears and sweat, and his already sore back hurts from crouching for half an hour. He sways for a minute and clutches the door frame, head spinning from standing up so quickly. When the spinning does stop it leaves him with a headache and a bad taste in his mouth.

Almost involuntarily he makes his way to the door of his apartment, only having formed half an idea in his head. He runs a hand through his hair, still clutching a fanzine meant for Suoh Tamaki, apartment 305. Kyouya grips the doorknob, pausing. He takes a breath and squirms a bit in his place before throwing open the door. He takes time to look both ways down the hall before walking down a door to the supposed Suoh residence.

He raises a shaky hand to the door to knock, but he finds himself reluctant. What is the proper commoner’s social standard for door knocking? Two times could easily be mistaken for thunder. Then so could three as well. He wasn’t someone who could pull off knocking in some sort of rhythm. He settles on the doorbell.

Kyouya bounces on his heels and wrings his hands, waiting. He’s never been patient, and the thunder and wind only increasing in decibel didn’t help. He looks down at his hands, cursing himself for not bringing the rest of the mail. This is probably breaking some sort of law, withholding someone’s property. In fact Kyouya knows it is, but he chooses to ignore that.

The door opens, and Kyouya’s head shoots up to face a bright smiling blonde man in a sharp blue business suit, someone with whom, in normal circumstances, Kyouya would have felt perfectly normal conversing.

“Suoh Tamaki?” Kyouya asks, holding out the fanzine in front of him, eyes quickly downcast again.  
The man hesitates, looking Kyouya up and down and then at the fanzine. His smile quickly returns. “You must be the new 303! I’ve been sending spam there for ages,” he says through a nervous laugh and tight smile. A striking smile.

Kyouya lets his hand drop to his side. His eyes narrow, and he raises an empty hand to adjust his glasses. “That I’ve seen. You know that’s actually a form of fraud – Shit.”  
At a particularly loud burst of thunder, Kyouya’s hand jerks, knocking his glasses right onto the floor. Kyouya freezes. He hadn't hear them fall on the carpet and didn’t know where they’d ended up. Any move risked stepping on them. He pathetically looks around, but it's no use. He feels like a dewy-eyed fawn.

“Hey, here you go,” Suoh Tamaki says, putting a warm hand on Kyouya’s shoulder, and brushing imaginary dust off the darker man's front. Kyouya flinches but reaches out with cupped hands, expecting the man to hand him his glasses. Instead he feels him gently place them back on his face. Kyouya’s vision focuses back on Suoh Tamaki with what he is sure are wide eyes. Suoh simply smiles more.

“Storms get to you?” he asks in a lilting voice, head tilting to the side with a bemused expression on his face. "My dog has the same fear."

Kyouya, slightly miffed at the comparison, begins, “I just came to give you –”

“What did you say your name was again?” Suoh interjects.

Kyouya stares at him for a moment, staggered, before carefully articulating, “Ootori Kyouya.”

Suoh nods but doesn't seem to recognize the name. “Ootori Kyouya! Say, I have a battery operated teapot. Do you want to come in? So kind a neighbor I don’t want to send you back in the dark!”

Wringing his hands, Kyouya considers. His door was steps away. It wasn't very dark at all; though disorienting, the flickering backup lights were doing their job. But wasn't this what Kyouya wanted? Why else had he come here with an advertisement he knew the neighbors wouldn't miss? He glances at his door again and back to Suoh. With a voice he is sure exudes complete confidence and does not sound like a question as all, he answers, “Sure.”

And so Kyouya met him.


End file.
